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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049557">lycoris radiata</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaphoricallyPainful/pseuds/MetaphoricallyPainful'>MetaphoricallyPainful</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>SEVENTEEN (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Dom/sub Undertones, Extended Metaphors, Hints of Dystopia, I'm Bad At Tagging, Lee Seokmin | DK-centric, M/M, Metaphors, Non-Linear Narrative, Sad and Happy, Sad with a Happy Ending, War, aggression as a type of love language, ish, ish???</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:40:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,401</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049557</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaphoricallyPainful/pseuds/MetaphoricallyPainful</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>lycoris radiata n.<br/>-red spider lily<br/>-the bloom of these flowers<br/>in the wake of meeting someone<br/>means one will never see them again</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kim Mingyu &amp; Lee Seokmin | DK, Lee Seokmin | DK/Xu Ming Hao | The8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>lycoris radiata</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a little story I wrote sometime ago and made some tweaks to.</p><p>TW: there is mention of blood in here, so please proceed with caution. There are also descriptions of dueling, battle, and weapons.</p><p>As for the sad with a happy ending tag, it really depends on how you view the situation I suppose</p><p>Read and enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> lycoris radiata n. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -red spider lily </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -the bloom of these flowers  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> in the wake of meeting someone </em>
</p><p>
  <em> means one will never see them again </em>
</p><p>
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</p><p>Blood.</p><p>There is so much blood.</p><p>It flows around the body cooling on the grass, making islands out of wilting flowers moated by red. There’s shouting in the distance, metallic clinks of blades against blades, muffled thumps as riders fall to be trampled by their horses. Cacophony is cantering through the air, rattling like discordant bells against ear drums far too sensitive for such noise. Generals shout commands into the fray, ranks of men sinking as the lines are pummeled by arrows. </p><p>Seokmin is drowning under the noise, the daze, <em> the pain the pain the pain </em>. So much pain. There's screaming in his chest and it’s horrible, terrible, gut wrenching, pounding in tandem against his rib cage alongside the equally horrible screams flinging through the air. His lungs are liquifying, imaginary carbon gas working at his esophagus until he feels like he’s going to suffocate. He feels hollow, and under the blanket of shock his brain is beginning to drag over itself, it conjures a dim image of those chocolate bunnies that they used to sell on Easter. Those bunnies with only a thin layer of sickly sweet substance molded to encapsulate nothing. That’s how he feels right now. His chest is a gigantic chocolate Easter bunny, solid on the outside and completely, helplessly empty on the inside. The sun beats down at the soldiers relentlessly, and Seokmin half expects his chest to cave in on itself the way chocolate does under the application of too much heat. </p><p>Tears mix with sweat where it trails down his cheeks, along the slope of his nose. White noise crams into every corner of his mind, zapping away thoughts and coaxing forth a headache. His knees hit the grass softly, as softly as the body in front of him had when it had been pierced through by a blade. Multiple blades. Seokmin crawls forwards, limbs protesting against every movement. He doesn’t care anymore. Not when his heart is raw and bleeding on the ground before him, stabbed and unbeating. It takes him 5 minutes, 5 years, 5 decades 5 centuries 5 millennia—</p><p>It takes him an eternity.</p><p>
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</p><p>Beauty was an abstract concept. Or to Seokmin, at least.</p><p>Seokmin still holds a memory of his childhood best friend, years ago, before he left for the army. In the memory, Mingyu was showing him an image, a polaroid, he thinks is what it was called. In the polaroid, there was a boy, a boy with dark brown locks falling into his eyes and a blooming smile. <em> His name is Wonwoo, </em> Mingyu told him, <em> isn’t he the most beautiful?  </em></p><p>Seokmin nodded then, replied with an <em> of course, why not? </em> And objectively, he knew it was true. Wonwoo was beautiful, by society’s standards. But it didn’t hold the same resonance with him, didn’t pound his heart or speed his pulse the way Mingyu had described. Did that make him different?</p><p>Years later, a rookie lying in the bunks of the army camp, Seokmin learned that beauty was completely subjective. <em> Perhaps perspective is all it is, </em>one of his bunkmates said. Seokmin nodded, eyes half closed, and the subject slipped from his mind, hid itself on a forgotten shelf in his brain until one morning, it was shoved forcefully back out. </p><p>He recalls waking with his bunkmates, going through their morning routine quickly and efficiently before filing out the door towards the breakfast hall. There, crammed on rickety benches way too flimsy to be supporting 8 full grown men, their sector was introduced to a new addition. <em> Seo Myungho, </em> the lieutenant said, a hand on the shoulder of the boy. The boy pulled away from the hand, lifted his chin in a defiant manner and reintroduced himself. <em> Xu Minghao. </em>Unexpectedly, his gaze swept the room, locking on Seokmin for a second longer before turning away.  It was as if a tank had decided to run over his lungs. That concept of beauty was no longer a shapeless cloud in his mind. In his mind, it had solidified, shaped itself, molded itself until it resembled the new boy at the head of the hall. From then on, beauty was Xu Minghao to Seokmin.   </p><p>
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</p><p>Minghao’s head is heavy in his lap, hair unruly and mouth red, crimson, ruby, scarlet, wine, blood. Seokmin can’t help but think of how beautiful Minghao is, just like he did ages ago, in a breakfast hall crammed with people. Seokmin thinks of the taste of wine against his lips with every press of Minghao’s tongue. He thinks of the taste of metal on his lips when Minghao bit down. His fingers trace the blood-splattered cupid’s bow of Minghao’s lips, thumbing at the red, merlot, sangria spilling, swirling, coloring like lipstick on the plush of them. Outside, the battle goes on, aggression singing with the clashing of blades and the whistling of arrows. Inside, Seokmin knows only the blank look in the eyes that had still smoldered with fire only moments ago. He traces the figure 8 pin still stubbornly holding on to the coarse fabric of Minghao’s military uniform, meant to symbolize the infinite potential Minghao had. But a candle cannot burn if it is melted, wasted, a dying puddle, no wick for the feeble flames to grasp; potential cannot seek to flower without roots and dirt and stems. </p><p>
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</p><p>He and Minghao were put into the same rookie training group. On their first day of training, the Weapons’ Master brought them to the armory. <em> A weapon, </em> he said, <em> is not merely an instrument of death. It is your companion, your partner, a part of you and an extension of your body. You must be worthy of each other, you must choose each other. </em>It was an odd train of thought for Seokmin to follow. How could a sword, or spear, or bow be anymore but an instrument of death? How could it choose its wielder? Why should one need to be worthy of a weapon? How could it be an extension of one’s body? </p><p>He found his answers soon enough. While the rest of the group gathered around the piles of weapons and traded ideas, Minghao ducked away from the crowd, instead drawn to a lone table of swords. These swords were old, the Weapons’ Master had told them, they hadn’t seen the rage of battle for a long time. The others had immediately gravitated towards the new piles, the shining blades and thin, bone-handled knives. Seokmin found himself curiously following Minghao, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with him as he ghosted his fingers over the hilts of the old swords. Minghao didn’t acknowledge his presence, only trailed his fingers over the intricate carvings of a silver white sword. There was an elaborate design of snowflakes adorning the blade, catching slices of light and gleaming silver in the dim lighting of the armory. The grip was hollow on the inside, swirling designs carved into the thin metal with great care. Minghao withdrew it from the pile, fingers wrapped firmly around the grip. The refraction of light from the blade showered the room in flecks of white and silver, miniature stars flung across the ceiling. </p><p>Looking at him with his arm raised and chin lifted, Seokmin thought that he’d never seen someone more beautiful. </p><p>The Weapons’ Master approached them, eyeing the blade appreciatively. <em> This one caught your fancy? </em> Minghao nodded, lowering the blade and running gentle fingers over it. <em> Her name is Frostwork.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Frostwork. A beautiful name for a beautiful sword, held by a beautiful boy. Life was a string of coincidences. But Seokmin later learned that it perhaps wasn’t so coincidental, watching the arcs of silver Frostwork cut through the air as Minghao pressed him to the edge of their chalk dueling circle. There was a kind of blazed determination in Minghao’s eyes, gold flames ignited in hazel eyes to match the silver flames of his blade. Each strike was sure, confident, calculated; it was bladework far too advanced for a rookie. Seokmin finally understood what the Weapons’ Master had meant. Frostwork in Minghao’s hand was an elongation of his arm, his mind, his body. The blade twirled to his bidding, dancing through the air straight and true each time. Minghao maneuvered it with easy grace, as if it weighed nothing in his hand. Barely deflecting, Seokmin marveled at this Minghao, mind and body a steel machine operated by a single minded purpose: to win. Taking advantage of Seokmin’s lack of focus, Minghao rammed the pommel of his sword into Seokmin’s unguarded sword hand, disarming him in a matter of seconds. Before he knew it, Seokmin was being spun around, arms being held in an uncomfortable twist as his knees were kicked to drop. A cold blade rested at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a dangerous promise gleaming in his peripheral. </p><p>“Do you yield?” Minghao’s voice was leached of feeling, ice cold as his sword. </p><p>“I do, but on one condition.” The sword dug in slightly at his neck, not hard enough to draw blood, but to serve as a reminder. <em> I’ve got you, </em> it said, <em> you’ve nowhere to run. </em>The feeling of being so close to submission settled a dark haze over his mind, burned a fire in his gut. </p><p>“Name it,” Minghao commanded, authority cutting sharper than blades.</p><p>“Turn me around,” Seokmin whispered, voice raspy, “let me see you.” The sword at his neck wavered with obvious shock. Clearly, Minghao hadn’t expected this. A hand gripped his shoulder harshly and spun him around on his knees, the sword back a second later. Seokmin barely registered the cold, breath knocked out by the beauty in front of him. </p><p>Minghao towered over him, mouth a firm line, hair falling into his eyes. They were no longer hazel, brown swallowed by a bottomless black as they took in the sight of Seokmin on his knees before him. The sun haloed him, wrapped him in a golden cloak. Before him no longer stood Minghao; instead, Seokmin looked at him and saw a warrior, a soldier, a god. He looked like an avenging angel wreathed in heavenly fire. The tip of his blade kissed his chin, tipping his head back. </p><p>“I said, do you yield?” The sunlight poured through the space between them, raised a shield, a barrier, made Minghao untouchable. Untouchable, and unreachable. The remoteness of divinity, perhaps. </p><p>“I yield,” Seokmin responded, voice throaty and coiled with something else. Frostwork clattered to the ground as a pair of lips smashed into his. The world went up in flames.</p><p>
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</p><p>Minghao’s flame has gone out, smothering Seokmin in the crushing darkness without his gentle smiles to guide him through. It’s this knowledge that bows him over Minghao’s body, fingers infinitely gentle as he holds Minghao to his chest and sobs as if it’ll make a difference, as if it’ll bring Minghao back. </p><p>Seokmin doesn’t startle, doesn’t scream, doesn’t fight when a sword sinks into his back, deep enough to penetrate right through him. The sword pierces Minghao too, and while Seokmin winces to see Minghao suffering more even in death, a sense of peace and grave acceptance washes over the frayed edges of his soul. At least they’ll go together, embedded on the same fatal instrument just as they had promised each other once upon a time, wrapped around each other on a night that feels so, so, so far away. </p><p>
  <em> “Wherever you go, I go too. Always and forever together.” </em>
</p><p>
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  <em> “Wherever you go, I go too. Always and forever together.” </em>
</p><p>
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</p><p>Their relationship drew on the fine line between love and hate. Kissing was more a meeting, a clashing, of tongue and teeth rather than tender lips. Their unions were rough, possessive, desperate, marks intricate on their skin days after. At first, Seokmin was sure that that was all Minghao was willing to give. Until one day, or maybe it was a progression over a series of days, the crudeness of the nature of their relationship fell away to reveal something gentle underneath. Seokmin got to learn about Minghao through not just the shape of his body and what he liked, but also through the window to his heart. He learned that Minghao loved wine, loved painting, loved dogs. Minghao painted for him a picture of a seaside house with a loved one and a dog, and Seokmin found himself wondering if he would live to be a part of that. The gap between them closed, and Minghao no longer seemed like an untouchable divine manifestation in human proportions. Instead, he became a real person, a part of Seokmin’s life, and the owner of the key to his heart. </p><p>Seokmin just didn't know how long it would last before conflict found them and the dreams shattered to irreversible pieces.</p><p>
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</p><p>From above, the soldiers scuttle like ants on a hill as they fight, darting shadows never lingering long enough to be recognizable. The crowd parts, water to stone, around two people, twined together like they’re fated even in death. Red spider lilies bloom in forests around them, red petals curling towards each other as if imitating the bodies on the ground. The thin tentacle-like petals that surround the softer ones gape wide up at the sky, arms flung open in the face of reality. They seem to be offering, granting their own souls to heaven like the man on the ground did, when he had stepped over death’s threshold so easily.</p><p>The flowers sway gently; the wind ghosts over the plains, tiptoeing around the bodies, the machinery, the anger. It whispers of two men, walking hand in hand, joy alight on their faces as they approach the gates of heaven. The bodies on the ground crumple, fading to broken flower petals as the breeze picks them up and shepherds them to a place where they’ll be treasured forever. </p><p>Skimming across the treetops of the forest backdropping the battle, a graceful voice hums an angelic melody, tone shades brighter when another layers on top, tangling words into the flowing threads of the nameless melody, syllables melting into the rhythm and falling over the cadences. The melody doesn’t really need a name, though. The lyrics say enough. </p><p>
  <em> Wherever you go, I go too. Always and forever together... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> together... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> together... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> together... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> together... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> together... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> together... </em>
</p><p>
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</p><p>
  <em> I love you. </em>
</p><p>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments; they are always appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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